


the greater fear

by arekiras



Series: you can run on for a long time [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: (not mentioned in this fic tho), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Chronic Pain, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Trauma, of my own character lol, trans courier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27181618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arekiras/pseuds/arekiras
Summary: “What is alive and what isn’t and what should we do about it? Theories: about the nature of the thing. And of the soul. Because people die. The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does.” -The Language of the Birds, Richard SikenA package courier is birthed from the Mojave.
Series: you can run on for a long time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984126
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	the greater fear

**Author's Note:**

> First work meant to flesh out my courier, Kit Hester. Find me on tumblr @transcouriers

Kit sits cross legged on the baked Mojave ground, shielded from the relentless sun by Victor’s large metal shadow. Still, he can feel the heat burning off of Victor’s hull and knows the robot would be painful to touch. Sweat drips down the back of his neck. He digs his fingers into the tightly packed sand at the top of the hill, swiping his face with the shoulder of his borrowed Vault suit. Nothing should be able to grow here, the ground poisoned by radiation and scorched by an unforgiving sun, tread by millions of no good men. And yet, less than a week ago, Kit was ripped out of this very ground by the root, covered in blood and sand, a kind of birth. 

“You alright, pardner?” The kindly robot asks after a while. 

He had needed a bit of help getting up the hill, his head throbbing and his legs wobbling beneath him like a newborn Brahmin calf. Victor had been kind enough to escort him to his own grave and stand guard while he sulked in the dirt, but the shadows are growing long, and creatures will slink from their hovels soon as nighttime cools the desert sands. 

Kit presses his fingers gingerly to the mostly-clean bandage wrapped around his head, the stitches in his forehead still tender and fresh and oozing. His entire head aches, every beat of his heart bringing a new wave of pain. The light bounces and burns in his vision, every noise clattering against his ears without mercy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. It’s not like he can pick his spilled memories up out of the sand, dust off his sense of coordination, the cure to his constant headache. 

Kit has lost much, but none of it will be found wallowing around in grave dirt. 

“Yeah, thanks Victor,” Kit says, making his way to his feet. He sways only slightly, but his hands shake. He shoves them in the pockets of his Vault suit and follows the robot back down the hill to Doc Mitchell’s place, sweat drying on his skin as the sun continues its descent down behind the mountains to the west. 

Doc Mitchell is waiting in the kitchen when he comes back in, leaning against the counter. “Find anything, son?” 

“Just some broc flower for Sunny,” Kit says, showing the doctor the little white flowers he picked. The woman offered to show him how to make healing powder if he scrounged up the ingredients. Kit was something of a local celebrity, managing to rally the town together to fight off an errant group of Powder Gangers, even though he doesn’t think he managed to hit a single one of them with his wavering aim. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop the tremors that travel up and down his arms, making using a pistol next to impossible. He just squeezed the trigger repeatedly, figuring he’d hit something eventually. 

As thanks, the townspeople have been letting him survive off of their hospitality, but Kit knows he can’t stay. His head aches, and every time he closes his eyes he imagines the flash of a bullet entering his brain. He has a score to settle. But now, his legs feel like jelly and his head pounds and he wants rest. 

“Another migraine?” Doc Mitchell asks sympathetically, taking in his pinched expression. At Kit’s nod, he goes into the other room, returning with a syringe of Med-X. He jabs it into the bend of Kit’s elbow, the medication dulling the pain. Then, the doctor unwraps Kit’s head, examining the wound. “It’s healing well,” he murmurs, wiping it with an antiseptic soaked rag and wrapping it with new bandages. 

“Thanks, Doc,” Kit says and Doc pats his shoulder. 

“Get some rest, son, you know Sunny Smiles rises at dawn,” Doc Mitchell says, and Kit goes back to the little cot in the examination room that Doc has afforded him until he moves on. As soon as he lays down, he lets out a sigh of relief. A day of chasing geckos with Sunny and then climbing the hill to the cemetery took all of his strength. He had planned on washing up in the basin, but instead he just kicks off his boots and settles in for the evening before the moon has fully risen. 

A few days later, he’s standing at the edge of town with his Mojave Express bag slung over his shoulder, a rifle strapped across his back, and a wide brimmed canvas hat on his head over the bandana that covers his bandages. Trudy is standing there with her arms crossed, a scowl on her face as she looks him over. “You be careful out there, boy, keep your wits about you,” she says, straightening the strap of his rifle. “And remember: there will always be a place for you here. If you can’t find what you’re looking for, or find something you don’t like, well… Goodsprings will always welcome you back.” 

“Thank you, Trudy,” Kit says, cheeks turning pink at her motherly tone of voice. 

“Don’t forget what we practiced,” Sunny adds, Cheyenne by her side, tail wagging. 

“And head on back if you need patching up,” Mitchell claps a hand on his shoulder with a smile. 

Kit ducks his head, nodding and looking at his already dusty boots. “I will. Thank you for everything.” 

He fidgets with his PipBoy and turns his gaze toward the direction of Primm, home to the Mojave Express outpost. He must have been there before, perhaps dozens of times, but he cannot recall it other than a few shuddery memories of a derelict old roller coaster and the smell of home cooking. 

Placing one foot in front of the other, he starts down the cracked highway, heading toward the morning sun. The light stings his eyes, even through the sunglasses he had purchased from Chet. The heat is already oppressive and makes his skin itch with sweat before long, his clothes sticking to his skin. His head is throbbing steadily, not pain as much as the threat of it, but he still sees the figures up the road long before they see him, and pauses. If they’re raiders or Powder Gangers, he’s no match for them by himself. He has a 9mm on his hip, but it’s more for decoration than anything. His hands shake already and he hasn’t even taken hold of the thing yet, his entire body wracked with constant tremors unless he’s just dosed himself with Med-X. 

Kit sighs and crosses the highway to be opposite the figures, staying low and moving with excruciating slowness, using the broken barricade as cover. He holds his pistol in his hand for comfort, but the raiders don’t notice them, busy bickering and shooting the breeze rather than watching for couriers. Still, he doesn’t risk standing up fully until he’s well past them. 

By the time he reaches the outskirts of Primm, his head is well and truly aching, pounding in time with his pulse and causing flashes to appear in his vision, the sun drenched Mojave turning spastic and white hot, explosions that only he can see causing him to waver in his steps. His brain feels swollen in his head, taking up too much space, hurting all the way down his neck. 

An NCR soldier stops him, watching him warily as they speak. Kit wonders if he’s visibly swaying, the ground seeming to tilt toward and away from him. He’s never seen the ocean, but he feels as though he’s standing atop turbulent waves, a surfer in an advertisement he saw on a billboard. Still, the soldier allows him past and when he finds the commanding officer’s tent the sudden change in visibility makes his head spin enough that he collapses right inside the flap, spots spinning in his vision. It takes all the willpower he has not to puke up his lean breakfast. 

The lieutenant inside recovers from his surprise quickly and is kneeling before Kit and speaking, though his voice is garbled through a fog of nausea and pain. He vaguely understands a sentiment of concern and follows the gesture the lieutenant makes toward a free cot in the corner of the tent. Kit shambles over to it and falls onto it face first, not even removing his pack and rifle before tipping over into unconsciousness. 

His dreams are staticky and indistinct, awash with hot desert air and blistered by the sun. He wakes up with chapped lips and the lingering memory of a smile in a creased face and the roar of a train in his ears. Fragments of memories, perhaps, snatched from the wind echoing through his scrambled brain. Kit can almost recall his life, but only if he looks at it sideways, out of the corner of his eye. As soon as he faces it directly it slinks away like a spooked animal. The notion of long trips west and then back east, and then west again. Mountains and sand and sand and sand. A lifetime’s worth of sore feet and worn out boot leather. He remembers enough to know that he has so much to mourn for. 

Kit rolls onto his side, eyes slitting open as his mind settles on another fragment. A slimy little man in a checkered coat, the moon hanging above and watching dispassionately as he shoots Kit in the face. His wound twinges at the memory and his stomach turns, throat closing around phantom grave dirt, choking him. Kit clears his throat and rises, pushing the unpleasant feelings away. He still has a score to settle. 


End file.
